Temple University School of Medicine - Skull Yearbook (Philadelphia, PA)

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Medical correlation cropped up once more at this point. I)r. Kolmer again acting as guide. Once more we heard that “the laboratorv is no short-cut royal road to diagnosis, and watched patients quail under his scathing tirades on diabetics and alcoholics. Clinical immunology revealed another facet of Dr. Kolmer’s versatility: we ladies and gentlemen were instructed to use syringes for injections, guns for shots. Without doubt, the second trimester’s piece de resistance was intended to he pharmacology, still guided by Dr. Livingston. The unassigned pages in Goodman Gilman became fewer, the unread greater. A Livingstonian classic was the mouse who dipped his tail in a barrel of alcohol and went on to the cat-defiant stage. Prospective chauffeurs take warning, no more than 0.01% blood alcohol one shot! Dr. Larson gave some of our lectures in his own booming, ponderous way, and Dr. Fellows sprightly efforts were entirely too few and far between. After much procrastination, the marks from the first test appeared, computed to the nearest tenth—the number of grades posted exceeded the number in the class. Lab sessions presented an amazing series of experiences, from burning rats’ tails to catheter-izing rabbits. Excellent equipment aided our efforts, but ether was a problem. Despite Dr. Livingston’s unique and heroic measures, the anesthetist often succeeded in ending the experiment prematurely, but not unhappily. Dr. Fellows supervised the filling of our prescriptions— and it came as quite a surprise when some of us were told, ‘‘Here’s a teaspoon—let’s see you take it. At last the widely-heralded conferences took place—eighteen hours' worth of cross-examination or bull, varying with the instructor in charge. Then the never-to-be-forgotten final. It started at two on a Saturday afternoon, but long after dark the light still burned in 510. Dr. Larson munched his sugar cubes while the rest of us sweated and starved. The anticlimax came main months later when our careful!) worked lab books were returned without a single mark or comment. Two hours a week of anatomy served to pick up a few loose threads from our freshman vear. and to add several new ones. Drs. Huber and Weston aided in the picking-up process: Dr. Bradley did noble battle in behalf of medical genetics, but it remained a bafiling subject. Dr. Moyer presented a whirlwind review of the extremities. In two hours the arm and leg had revealed their every secret. We reached a | eak in our medical careers when psychiatry introduced us to Dr. Eleanor Steele, who radiated a unique psychic t ? I attraction which caused the back-row-hoys to migrate forward. Where the chronic front-rowers sat during psychiatn class has always remained somewhat of a mystery.) Another new face in this second trimester was Dr. Baker, who told us all about public health. Dr. Mark’s weekly sessions in physical diagnosis continued without appreciable change or Left: Dr. Eleanor H. Valentine ... a principle was discovered, by Kracke! Center: Smith and Stubenrauch with Dr. C»ault . . . the mirror didn't work. liifiht: Dr. Mfred E. Livingston. 21

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lost the students. How is it ingested, how and where excreted, where toxic, what is its action on the liver, how does it affect the adrenal, how does its effect differ in the salamander, what are its uses, if any, etc. usw. In the lah we tasted and smelled all sorts of things with aromas that varied from that behind the local bar on Sunday morning to that resembling what Mop Dillon’s grampaw uses to attract bees. If one happened to grab the paraldehyde bottle first, he might as well go home as far as two of his senses were concerned. Still it was always worth the staying to see the additional extra-experimental activity put on by Dr. Larson: feeding some eager student—who volunteered for scientific benefits—alcohol and glucose by the quart, or setting of a small atomic bomb made from some therapeutic concoction we had just tasted. And so with these three courses welded into our armamentarium of medical knowledge, giving us new security and confidence, we strode onward head high and loins girded, summarizing our thirst for the unknown with the guiding words of Sir William. “Good Lord, what next?” . . . and the professors agreed. That Thanksgiving vacation was a huge four-day affair, but we need a deep breath before plunging into the awesome second trimester. It opened, most auspiciously, with mycology- The cast was familiar from bactee, but the role we were expected to play was distinctly confusing. The discovery that yeasts and hops are not in- separable came as an acute shock to many. Candida was found to be “an imperfect yeastlike mold,” as well as a George Bernard Shaw epic. Christmas pul a stop to all this, and then Dr. Kolmer reappeared to usher in 1947. This he did with a majestic wave of his arm and presto . . . parasitology! Unfortunately, “prominent Market Street business men seem singularly lax in the development of parasitic infestations. but Dr. Kolmer diverted us by his informative. if somewhat acrobatic lectures. I)r. Gault came into our schedule at this point to act as co-pilot. His lectures were definitely informal, but full of stray gems and unexpected test questions. His instructions on the use of the NIH swab with a rear-view mirror were definitely in the essential category; our ice-cream boxes, too, came under his command. Valentines are not always lace-edged and this wc discovered as clinical pathology entered the picture. The good doctor never seemed to be able to cram enough into one hour’s lecture, so that writer’s cramp was a frequent complaint after each session. With the unfailing help of a starched assistant. Dr. Valentine herded us through blood counts and more blood counts: our results so rarely agreed with the “right answers that main of us believed the initial counts were done by the Braille system. Puncturing one’s neighbor made for uneasy friendships ... he might stick you next time. At our first examination the heat came on in earnest- one classmate received a startling 4£, yet survived to tell the tale. Left: Garcia and Hawes . . . the heart rale is increased. Center: Harris and Gcrnerd . . . another experiment in the making. Right: Dr. Dean A. Collins. 20

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improvement: we went from cracked-pot resonance to Dupuy Iren’s contracture. But something new was added as we discovered Episcopal and Jewish Hospitals. Each Wednesday afternoon found eager groups of sophomores converging on real live patients. White coats sprouted conspicuous stethoscopes, flash lights, and other medical paraphernalia. Diagnostic points were shown in amazing profusion, with the constant admonition that. “Once you see. hear, and or feel this, you'll never forget it. Dr. Giambalvo presented a rather frightening introduction to surgery, with his piquant expressions—“buttermilk pus. and “wait till it turns black, then whack it off. We learned minor surgery our junior year. Dr. Quindlen started us on the rough road to the delivery room, namely, obstetrics. His lectures were sure to be full of laughs—jokes, tales, personalized mannikin demonstrations using a vest for a uterus. Tall, soft-spoken, red-headed Dr. Thomas Durant began our series on medicine. His gentlemanly mien inspired a universal respect for him as a person, and his well-organized lectures established a respect for him as a teacher. Suddenly, there was a blurred impression of exam on exam, and, almost before we knew it, we were on the third and last lap of our sophomore year. We ran headlong into pathology one morning in late winter when Dr. Aegerter appeared before us to talk about the changes in tissues incurred by physical disease. He rushed vigorously through the hour, missing not a detail. Then, while we tried to rub life and health back into our cramped and exhausted hands, he suggested that we hurry right up to microscopic lab. There we were presented with a terrifying list of four hundred twenty-nine slides, and a schedule that gave us something different to do each hour. We began to feel that maybe Dr. Aegerter had been right when he'd said. “You won't be able to go to the movies on Saturday nights while you're taking pathology. Maybe he hadn’t meant that as a joke, after all. Our first autopsy was one of the events of the year. Goalless, we raced across the street to the morgue in the basement of the Brown Building. It is a gloomy place—one bright light over the table holding the body; a bunsen burner and a galvanized tub overflowing with water, a rubber sponge half sinking in it; grey-white sheets shuddering over the door to the outside: dark shadows in the corner by the ice box that holds four shrouded humans. We wondered what manner of men could do this sort of thing; but, as the autopsy began, a tone of scientific investigation was set so that soon we were aware only of a consuminglv-deep interest in the case before us. Before the hour was over, two men dressed in black appeared from behind the sheets to announce that we were holding them up; we were behind schedule, as usual. Who were they to interrupt so rudely? The next hour we rushed back to the pathol- Left: Dr. Eleanor Steele . . . the hack row moved. Center: Dr. George E. Mark, Jr. ... a long hour. Right: Dr. Gioacchino P. Giambalvo . . . waits until it turns hlack. 22